Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (26 page)

‘I took advantage of my trip to London to sort out certain other
matters.’ He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a folded piece of
paper, which he handed to her. ‘Read it.’

She opened the paper out and stared at it.

‘A trifle presumptuous of me, I admit.’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘But then the last time I was here you did lead to me believe that you would
not be too averse to having me as a husband. And, as my patience will not
stretch to the reading of banns, a special marriage licence seemed the obvious
solution.’

She laughed, and slowly the tears began to roll down her cheeks.

‘Will you marry me, Francesca?’

‘I will gladly marry you, Jack Holberton.’ She was laughing and
crying both at once. He pulled her to him and she wrapped her arms around his
neck. His mouth found hers and he kissed her deeply, passionately, with all the
love in the world.

Francesca lay in bed and watched the sleeping form of her
husband; a month had passed since she had been able to call him thus. Somewhere
in the house a clock struck ten, and morning light was peeping through the
thick red velvet of the curtains. She stretched out in the warm luxury and
marvelled again at the man by her side. His face was boyish and innocent in
repose; a far cry from the truth, she thought, considering that in which they
had been indulging for a good part of the previous night. She leaned over and,
gently sweeping his hair back, dropped a light kiss on his forehead. He gave a
contented sigh and curled his arm around her.

Outside there was the sound of feet skipping down the gravel
driveway, of laughter and a girl’s squeals, followed by a shout. ‘Tell him,
Mama. He’s pulling my pigtails again!’

Jack gave a groan. ‘I feel a visit to Salisbury coming on.’ He
opened one eye to watch her reaction. ‘Sarum seems to be taking his time over
redecorating the old parsonage. Might need to paste the paper on to the walls
myself to speed the matter.’

‘Jack Holberton!’ Francesca pushed at his chest playfully. ‘You
know Uncle George just wants everything perfect for Mama.’

‘And rightly so.’ He chuckled and pulled her closer. ‘I’m only
teasing. I love having your family to stay—even if they do get up at such an
ungodly hour. Is it even daylight yet?’

‘It’s ten o’clock.’ She laughed. ‘Well past time we were up.’ As
she made to move, a shaft of sunlight made its way past the curtains to land
upon the silver necklace that still hung around her neck. The
Swift
seemed
to sparkle and glint. Francesca watched Jack reach out to gently capture the
tiny ship and bring it to rest upon his fingers.

‘The tale of that December night will be told in taverns
throughout Devon for years to come,’ he mused.

‘A smuggler’s tale of how Lord Jack Holberton captured a traitor
as well as the notorious Buckley gang,’ said Francesca.

His eyes met hers. ‘I was thinking more about how a brave and
beautiful woman captured his heart.’

‘You are incorrigible.’ She smiled, and teased her fingers along
his cheek.

He released the
Swift
and captured her fingers instead,
kissing each one in turn. ‘So I’ve been told,’ he said. Then he pulled her back
down against him and began to kiss her in earnest, and for Francesca it was as
if the magic of a Christmas night had never ended.

Miranda Jarrett

I’ve always believed that Christmas was more about family and the
spirit of the season than commercial excess. That’s the feeling I wanted for
the hero and heroine of
The Sailor’s Bride
. Both Abigail and James are
far from not only home, but also far from any traditional English Christmas
celebration. Yet it is their shared memories of past holidays that help bring
them closer together, and cement the joy of their love for one another.

Of course, I didn’t make things particularly easy for Abbie and
James, by setting them down in the middle of one of the more exciting incidents
of the Napoleonic Wars. Many readers will recognize Lord Nelson and Lady
Hamilton, here just beginning their doomed love affair. Sir William’s famous
collection of antiquities, the Battle of the Nile, the well-planned escape of
the Neapolitan royal family before Napoleon’s troops, even the freakish
Christmas Eve snow storm and the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius are all historical
fact. Abbie and James live only in this story—though I like to think they
could
have been real.

Wherever your Christmas may find you this year, I wish you and
your family every happiness and all the best for the coming New Year.

Miranda

For Abby Zidle, with much
affection and thanks for your wise editing, and the best of wishes for all your
new endeavors!

Naples, Kingdom of Two Sicilies, September, 1798

W
ITH
both hands Abigail Layton clung to the
wicker sides of the little donkey cart as it jostled and bounced up the narrow
street. After nearly two months at sea, on the voyage from England, she’d grown
so accustomed to the rocking of the ship against the waves that when she’d
disembarked this morning it had seemed as if the ground had lurched beneath her
feet. Riding in this cart over the cobbles was even worse—the feeling so
unfamiliar that she feared she’d be as seasick—or land-sick, if such a thing
were possible—as she’d been when she’d first set sail from Gravesend.

‘The house of the British ambassador,
signorina
,’ the
driver said, pointing his whip farther up the hill.

‘The British embassy, you say?’ Abigail said faintly, tugging the
brim of her hat a bit lower to shield her eyes as she squinted into the sun.
‘Thank you.’

The embassy was large and grand, high on the hill overlooking the
sea, and to her eyes looked more a palace than a home. Abigail forced herself
to
observe
the house the way Father had taught her—to study it
intellectually so that she’d forget her uneasy stomach. Twelve tall windows to
each floor, a long gallery of white columns in the classical style: yes, focus
on them, and not on the way the sweat was trickling down her spine beneath her
too-heavy woollen mourning gown. When she’d left her home in Oxford summer had
already ended, but here in Naples the heat was still blazing away.

For reassurance she touched her fingers to the little gold heart
she always wore around her neck, a gift from Father the last Christmas they’d
had together. How strange to think she’d spend this Christmas beneath sunshine
and palm trees instead of holly boughs, at least she would if the ambassador
decided to keep her.

‘Here,
signorina
.’ The driver drew the cart before the
house, the jingling bells on the donkey’s harness tinkling incongruously before
the row of steps that swept up to the ambassador’s imposing door. The man
hopped down to the pavement, lifted out her single trunk to the steps, and held
his hand out to her.

‘Yes, of course.’ Abigail began searching through her pocket for
coins for the fare, but that wasn’t what the man had intended.

‘No, no,
signorina
.’ The driver swept his arm low in a
courtly bow before he held out his hand again, making it clear he’d meant to
help her from the cart. ‘First I am the servant of the beautiful English lady,
yes?’

Abigail flushed. She’d been warned that every Italian man fancied
himself a gallant, and here was the proof. She hadn’t journeyed all this way
for flirtation; she was here on business, serious business. Pointedly she
pressed the coins into the man’s outstretched hand, and climbed down to the
pavement unassisted. She smoothed her skirts, took a deep breath to settle her
nerves, and resolutely climbed the steps to knock on the ambassador’s door.

The tall footman who answered didn’t bother to hide his disdain
as he stared down at her from beneath his tall powdered wig. ‘What name,
signorina
?’

‘Miss Layton,’ Abigail said, handing him one of her father’s
cards. ‘Miss A.R. Layton. Sir William is expecting me.’

The footman hesitated, making it clear that he doubted very much
the ambassador had any such expectation. Abigail could understand his
reluctance. She
did
look shabby. Despite her best efforts, the hem of
her black mourning gown was blotched with white salt-stains from the sea-spray,
and the inexpensive wool had faded to a rusty brown. But Father deserved her
respect, no matter how weary that mourning had become, and besides, it was all
she’d brought. Given the grandeur of this doorway alone, she doubted the footman
let anyone through who was dressed as sorrily as she.

Yet still she stood her ground, determined to be admitted. She
was
here by the ambassador’s invitation. She had his letter in her pocket to prove
it. And anyway, she’d no money left for the passage back to England.

‘Please tell Sir William I am here,’ she said, striving to make
her voice sound genteel, not begging or desperate. ‘I wouldn’t wish to tell him
that I’d been delayed on his own doorstep.’

‘I’ll see if Sir William is in.’ Finally the footman stepped to
one side and opened the door for her. He motioned towards one of the stiff
little receiving chairs near the door, and left her. The hall was long, with a
high ceiling that made it cooler after the bright sun outside, and with a
little sigh Abigail sat on the edge of the first chair while the driver dumped
her trunk unceremoniously at her feet. She was exhausted and frustrated, and
her stomach was still uneasy, but—like any other tradesman—she’d have to await
the ambassador’s whim. She had no choice.

Servants came and went, walking by her as if she didn’t exist.
From somewhere inside she heard a clock chiming away the quarter-hours. As the
morning passed, the sunbeams that filtered through the fanlight over the front
door shifted across the floor. Still she waited, and waited.

Finally she heard footsteps and voices bustling towards her. An
older gentleman in a richly embroidered coat came down the steps, surrounded by
a clerk and two footmen carrying his cloak and his sword. Another footman
hurried forward to open the door, showing the carriage waiting outside.

Abigail rose and expectantly stepped forward. She was sure this
must be Sir William Hamilton, and though it wasn’t proper to address him first,
she wasn’t going to let him escape without seeing her.

‘Forgive me, Sir William,’ she began, and he stopped abruptly,
two stairs above her, so she had to look up. ‘I have come at your express
invitation, and I’ve been waiting since this morning to see you, and—’

‘You’re English, ma’am,’ he declared with obvious surprise.
‘You’re English, yet I’ve kept you waiting? Carter, why was I not told this
lady was here to see me?’

The clerk bustled forward, his hands clasped. ‘I believe Thompson
informed you of her arrival, Sir William, and presented her card. Sir
William—Miss, ah, Miss Layton.’

The ambassador’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘But A. R. Layton—’

‘Was my father, Sir William,’ Abigail finished quickly. ‘We have—
had
—the
same initials, you see. I have assumed his trade since his death last year, and
if you could but spare me a few moments, I can assure you that my scholarship
is equal in—’

‘In here, Miss Layton.’ Brusquely he motioned towards the nearest
parlour, off the hall. ‘I don’t have any moments to spare, but clearly this
matter must be settled directly.’

‘Thank you, Sir William.’ Her head high and her heart thumping
with anxiety, Abigail entered the room first, stopping before the fireplace
while Sir William closed the door. He
had
to accept her in Father’s
place; he couldn’t possibly refuse her services, not after she’d come this far.

The ambassador cleared his throat. He was older than she’d
expected, a tall, grandfatherly gentleman. She prayed he was as kind as he
looked.

‘I am sorry for the loss of your father, Miss Layton,’ he began
uneasily, ‘but I’m afraid that—’

‘Please listen, Sir William—oh, please, before you judge me!’ she
cried. ‘My father trained me in his scholarship and knowledge from a very early
age. I can vow with every confidence that I will catalogue your collection and
prepare it for shipping with all the thoroughness that it deserves, Sir
William, and that you will never find anyone else more skilled, more careful,
at preparing your precious antiquities for their return to England!’

He cleared his throat again. ‘You speak with great passion for my
old pots, Miss Layton. Especially for a young lady.’

‘They’re a good deal more than old pots, Sir William,’ protested
Abigail. ‘Your collection of antiquates is reputed to be the most exquisite in
all the Continent. And of course I have made myself entirely familiar with the
catalogue made for you by the Baron d’Hancarville.’

‘You have seen that?’ he asked with surprise.

‘I have seen it, sir, and read it in its entirety,’ she said
confidently. And she had, though in her opinion the Baron’s enormous work
wasn’t entirely without flaws. ‘To be able to work with such a magnificent
collection would be the greatest honour imaginable.’

Sir William smiled, obviously pleased by her comments, yet it was
also clear that his reluctance remained.

‘It’s not so simple as that, Miss Layton,’ he said, ‘nor a
question of your qualifications. How can I ask you to remain here in my
employment and put yourself in the possible path of growing hostilities? Surely
even at sea you must have heard of the great battle fought by His Majesty’s
Navy against Bonaparte’s forces?’

‘I’ve heard no such news, Sir William.’ As the only female
passenger on board the merchant ship that had brought her to Naples, she’d kept
to herself and eaten her meals alone. The few times she’d ventured on the deck,
the hands had whistled and taunted her with names that were so rude she
couldn’t have begun to understand them. Even the captain had been a rough,
ill-mannered man, and she’d wanted no more part of him or his crew than they’d
wanted of her.